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Frida cursed her lack of insight. At one time she would have been able to divine what troubled her friend, without making matters worse by asking her, forcing her to express that which caused her such pain.

“’Tis not the company of my foolhardy brother, Tristan, that you are missing, is it?” Frida guessed. Seeing Mirrie’s hastily concealed look of alarm she added, “I know you long ago had feelings for him.”

Mirrie dropped her eyes. “I was not aware you knew.”

“Aye. I have eyes in my head.” Frida smiled, but Mirrie pursed her lips in response.

“Twas long ago, as you say.” She sniffed. “We were but children.”

“That is what I thought.” Frida nodded emphatically. “You are far too sensible and wise to fall for Tristan’s charms.”

“Such as they are.” Mirrie wrinkled her pretty nose.

“Aye, such as they are.” Frida smiled again and this time, it was returned.

“Sorry, Frida, your question came out of the blue. I should not have reacted so.” Mirrie shook down her hood as they passed through the back door into the kitchen.

“Do not think on it again,” Frida assured her. “Mayhap it is the biting cold that affects us both?”

“That must be it.” Mirrie hung up her cloak with a shiver. “Will I fetch us some warmed wine? We can sit by the fire in the great hall?”

Tempting as the offer was, Frida shook her head. “Thank you, but nay. I must tend to Arlo. I did not have chance to change his dressing this morn.”

Because I went in search of Callum instead.

“You are not going out again so soon?”

“The sooner I go, the sooner I shall return,” Frida promised. Her head was already in the low-ceilinged loft over the stables where Arlo lay recovering just feet away from Callum’s tidy pallet.

With a farewell smile at her friend, Frida picked up her box of remedies and ducked back outside, her hood pulled up against the rain, which was now falling relentlessly.

She walked as quickly as she could across the cobbled courtyard, keeping her weight on the toes of her left foot.

She knew this gave her a hobbling sort of gait, but it was also the easiest way to get about without straining her ankle.

The old stone steps running up the side of the outbuilding were slippery with rain and she ascended them carefully, rapping against the wooden door at the top before she pushed it open.

Immediately her heart sank, for the loft was empty except for Arlo. She had hoped for a glimpse of Callum, e’en though his habit was to keep himself busy on the land.

Arlo was laying on his side, propped up with rugs and cushions to prevent him rolling onto his wound which was healing nicely. His blue eyes lit up when he saw her, and he smiled in welcome.

“Good day,” she greeted him. “How do you fare, Arlo?”

The boy had intelligence in his gaze and Frida was careful to always address him with that in mind, but in the short time she had known him, he had said less than ten words to her.

At first, she had put this down to him being awkward and in pain, but now part of her wondered if he might be simple-minded.

Callum’s other man, Andrew, who oft sat with Arlo, was equally inarticulate.

She wondered at his choice of travelling companions. Two simpletons and a Scottish rebel. But then she recalled that Callum was in service to the Lord of Egremont House. Mayhap Callum had no choice in who he rode out with.

She crossed the wooden floor and lowered herself carefully beside Arlo’s pallet.

Well-accustomed to their daily procedure, Arlo had already shifted onto his stomach so she might better view his wound.

Frida unwound the bandages, pleased to note no whiff of infection.

The deep cut had closed nicely, with thick scabs already forming.

Frida touched his shoulder, gently. “You will be up and about in a day or so, I’ll wager.”

Arlo made a noise which she couldn’t properly decipher. His face was pressed into a cushion, so it was hardly surprising she couldn’t decipher his speech. But his next words were clear enough.

“Thank ye.”

“You are most welcome.”

She once again packed his shoulder with honey, covered the wound with a linen pad and wound fresh bandages across his body.

The position of the cut meant she must wrap her bandages all around his ribs, going over and under alternate shoulders to keep the dressing in place.

Arlo sat up so that she might accomplish this.

Usually Andrew was here to help him into a sitting position, but today he managed well enough on his own.

“Very good,” she smiled, encouragingly. “Perchance on the morrow you might try to stand?”

His eyes met hers. “Aye, milady,” he whispered.

She wished he might converse more easily, so she could get to know this young man who had been so grievously injured on her property. A youth who Callum clearly held in great affection.

Sighing, Frida helped him back down, positioning him again so that he was on his side, facing the door.

“Will your friend be back soon?” she asked. “Andrew, isn’t it?”

Arlo opened his mouth as if to reply, but then closed it again.

He nodded vigorously, an elaborate pantomime that saw his pallet shift and Frida’s jar of honey, which had been precariously balanced on the corner fall to the floor.

She tutted as it rolled across the wooden floor and disappeared beneath Callum’s pallet.

“’Tis no matter,” she said reassuringly, for Arlo’s eyebrows shot up his face at her concerned expression. “I can reach it.”

But that was easier said than done. Frida had to lower herself into the narrow gap between the two pallets, relieved that Arlo was facing away from her and would not bear witness to her undignified wriggling.

Once in position, she blinked until her eyes grew accustomed to the gloom and squinted to make out the glint of the glass jar.

The gleaming blade of a dagger glinted back at her.

Frida quickly stifled her sharp intake of breath, realising that not one, but several blades lay concealed on the dusty floor beneath the pallet. This was no less than a stash of weapons.

A stash that Callum must know about. Nay, must be responsible for.

Her fingers trembled as she reached out for the jar of honey, which had settled near the carved wooden handle of a lethal looking dagger.

Did Arlo know about this , she wondered. Either way, she must move quickly else she would risk rousing his suspicion.

“I have it,” she declared, somewhat breathlessly.

Arlo grunted in response.

Frida pushed herself to her feet, dishevelled and dusty from the floor. She placed the honey back in the box and snapped the lid shut.

“That will be all for today,” she trilled.

Arlo nodded again and smiled. Footsteps outside had her starting with something like fear.

Misplaced fear?

Frida no longer knew. But she held herself steady and composed, half hoping and half dreading that Callum would appear through the wooden door.

But ’twas not Callum, ’twas Andrew. And Frida had never been so aware of his height and strength.

He smiled slightly and nodded his auburn head in greeting. Over the past two days, Frida had grown accustomed to the silence of these men, but now it struck her as menacing.

What if they were not simple, as she had previously thought? What if they were in league against her?

Did that mean that Callum was also in league against her? Frida’s heart pounded at the possibility. Surely that could not be?

In the moment, all that mattered was that she got out of the loft and into the fresh air, where she might breathe freely and unravel her tangled thoughts.

Swallowing hard, Frida walked past Arlo and made her way towards the door. By necessity, she must pass close to Andrew, who shrank back against the stone wall to let her pass.

“Milady,” he grunted.

“Andrew.” She adopted what she hoped was a bright smile and nodded her head.

She half expected him to shoot out a muscular arm and stop her progress, but Andrew merely held the door politely for her.

She clutched her box and descended the narrow steps more speedily than caution should have dictated, only allowing her muscles to unclench when she was more than half way across the courtyard, well within sight of the hall.

Then her shoulders shook and she let out a sob that she didn’t realise she had been holding in.

Her silvery plait swung in front of her eyes and her stomach rolled with nausea.

Had she been betrayed by the man she most wanted to trust?

Frida longed for some support. It seemed her ankle would never hold steady for the remaining walk across the courtyard. She had overdone it, walking to and from the village in the cold. But the main reason for her unsteadiness was shock.

Those concealed weapons! All the while she had treated Arlo in the loft, they had lain just feet away from her.

Gleaming, sharp, lethal.

Blades that had inflicted injuries, mayhap even killed men.

And she had bade Callum to give up his weapons. More so, she had been the one to take receipt of four heavy broad swords. Even now, they were locked in the armoury.

Frida could feel her face crumpling in a most unbecoming fashion. Hot tears threatened at the corners of her eyes. This was a man she had kissed, just hours earlier.

A man who made her heart sing.

A man who has deceived me.

She could not let this pass unpunished, she realised. The only question was, what should she do?